forbearance
by mayuniverse
Summary: this was akashi's share, and midorima was nothing but a giver / midoaka. PWP. for #30DaysofLiterature day 11 ; boundaries x "I do not belong to you and you don't belong to me"


The truth, slated in the scoreboard, did not need to be stated in sentences. If it was for emphasis of the excess scores, small for the emperor's track record, it was also not necessary enough. Midorima and the rest of Shutoku team had it fully-marked on his mind already, for the few minutes since the semifinal ended. Except if there was something which otherwise would be unspeakable—was that even possible at this point?

"I still win this time, Shintarou." Not even the offer of hand he was rejected from came out, but the remark did. The obvious declaration could be done as soon as the fourth quarter ended, but Akashi was being resolute with its placement; when fellow players and staffs and spectators had walked away from the hallway. As if it was something to be reserved for the two of them, "Reward me."

A switch flipped on Midorima's mind and it made sense because it was their situation. At least before sparks of golden started gleaming on Akashi's left eye, ways of calling changed from the surname to the given name. Patterns of speech shifted, ethics evolved. Number of steps towards checkmate subtracted, margin of victory maximized.

Defeat was not any more difficult to avoid then. In exams of various subjects and shogi matches and basketball shootouts alike, Midorima's luck and effort combined never stood against Akashi's mastery. Yet the promises of giving prizes in form of physical intimacy was too tempting to refuse; as if the prospect of doing good enough to be the one taking it in someday had not held him there.

"I thought you were aiming to become my enemy?" His question, despite being based deep in a thing Akashi told him at the match, was a betrayal to the rest of his brain. Out of desire to remind the Rakuzan captain of the reality he dictated with his own will, to resist the course of risky yet tempting situation—the remains of conscience and sanity reserved from strife and downfall.

In most parts, Midorima's intent was nothing more than presenting Akashi with what he deserved. But he was not one to deny his destiny. Midorima could ready himself to plunge Akashi to the depths of despair. However long it'll take to reach there, whatever way it'll have to be done in, if that was his part—if he had to take a role of a rival to introduce the taste of loss in Akashi's lips, let be it.

But Akashi approached, pushed towards the corner of the abandoned hallway. Trapped Midorima with the strength of hands that had crushed him among others. Dropped him by a bit until they were eye on eye, blazing orange and red on envy green beneath glasses, those he would evade if Akashi's fingers were not wrapped around his neck.

Akashi soon latched them off, or he would not be convincing as he talked to Midorima, "Keep your friends close."

As if he was acquainting a familiar person to a telltale companion, or a concept. Despite the dubious intentions in his proposition, Akashi was polite and proper and well-taught on the terms of socializing. Even in the most deranged states of mind, he knew there was no way for someone to befriend someone if he—

Broke the unwanted eye contact and slammed himself against Midorima and stopped close to capturing the shooting guard. Arms towering till it was almost above green haired head. Instead of tangling in the neat strands, Akashi looked more like he was going to grab Midorima, and drag him till they were at each other again, as he continued the words which were hanging, "But your enemies closer," and walked out, left a little note of time and directions between bounded fingers.

And Midorima would convince himself, that he would also comply with the part of a support if it was to provide the reward of Akashi's achievements. Those the latter asked and had a right to acquire for his own. So it was no wonder for Midorima to follow the instructions on the small sticky note paper.

Waited for the ten, fifteen minutes it demanded. Turned left, turned right, treaded downstairs for one floor, and took straight until he saw the men's locker room. Knocked three times, kept his calm in front of the door until he received a call from inside. "Come in," soft but nevertheless sure, "Shintarou," it was his cue.

To show up to a sight of Akashi, sitting on a bench with his back against the steel lockers, in a white and light blue jersey jacket—and top-tier winner status; all too similar to Teikou, Akashi's choice of high school team—and nothing beneath it but pale, smooth complexion. And as Midorima's stare went lower, he glimpsed those basketball shorts slipping from the other's slender waist. One touch and it would be thrashed on the floor, though it was known that Akashi did not want to be laid bare that fast.

He'd wish for a friction, yes, but in the form of something subtler and less lewd. Midorima would have to settle with wandering around whatever part of Akashi which was available to him, instead of barging beyond what was already there. Avoiding the mocking tone of Akashi's voice inside his head, ("How long are you going to just stare? Are you still thinking of what to give me?"), Midorima approached him.

Closed the room for just the two of them as he advanced. Ceased moving forward when he stood less than a meter in front of Akashi. Caressed the complacent face, followed the lines of sharp jaw. Crouched to reach the lean neck and lap on its soft skin, in a consistent but fleeting rhythm so that it would not leave scars, but still enough to stir up Akashi's senses.

Midorima was delighted with the whine he heard from lips he cannot touch—unrestricted by a mask, a hand or a makeshift gag, but by the limit that had been set for years, that he could never latch himself upon red, ripe lips (and a few more places, but that was to be thought of later) if it was not Akashi himself who asked for it.

As the ace from Shutoku moved away to tease the visible crook of his middle school captain's collarbones with his tongue, he avoided the hem of the outerwear, which seemed to be shrugged off to make way for more outreach. Flicked for a few seconds until Midorima finished trailing through both sides of stuck-out clavicles.

Akashi leaned himself against one of the lockers. At first glance, it looked as if he was offering more leverage. It was not the intent, though; instead it was nothing but a reaction, a sign of satisfaction that would end somehow if Midorima did not provide more. The distance was actually an indication for him to think over again. How to have Akashi open up or how to please with the time and space they had.

That movement caused the clothing on Akashi's upper body to slide down slightly, just enough to show Midorima a glimpse of his shoulders. The shooting guard grasped one of them and said, "You're ready for this, aren't you?" Taunted and treated the strip of skin in between the end of point guard's jacket and the band of the shorts as he heard a breathy, "Yes, please," as an answer and pulled their bodies until they almost clashed, chest-to-chest with each other.

Midorima's team uniform, bright orange in contrast to Rakuzan's pale colors, were still intact and it was not helping with the. On whether it would stay there for the rest of this encounter was up to Akashi, on whether he was still worth as a prize or not—Midorima was still cross about it as Akashi tugged into his old friend's fingers of the left hand, brought it to the front of his face. Ran his own fingers around the lines of white tapes that covered them and hummed, "I want this in me."

It had not been a habit for Akashi to tell what he wished someone else to do to him. Midorima was too used to taking calculated, but crude, guesses around every inch of the captain's being. In and off court, Midorima was no different to the other people which were against Akashi—he tried figuring out the way to avoid his own failure, only to end with what was in the other's best interest. But then, they were no longer in a position when it was free to do anything anymore.

Midorima unwrapped the bandage with his other hand. Akashi went down to the delicate digits, lathered them with his tongue. Midorima traced the curve of his lips and Akashi let him shove the fingers on his mouth.

Let them lull him. Restrict his speech and sighs for a moment as he sucked on them—until the shooting guard drawn away, left him feeling empty and breathing heavy.

"Anything more after that?" Midorima asked as he dragged out his fingers one by one. Each soaked in a copious amount of saliva, enough to enter and stretch someone's ass, giving pleasure without causing much pain if they hit the right places. Though he would not go there if Akashi said otherwise.

The red-haired youth contemplated about having long, firm fingers thrusting into him, about being prepared for something better, about having Midorima filling him full and; but he persisted with how much would his own present be, so he answered with a, "No. Don't." As expected. Akashi was not one to take more than what he was supposed to do, not when it could risk him in the next few days, when he would need to play in the final.

"Just finish it in my thighs instead," Akashi added as he shred off his shorts, threw it close to the abandoned top. Felt Midorima part the exposed legs and stroke their toned upper parts, slickening them and causing the Rakuzan captain to shiver under his touch. Even more when Midorima was willing to go down to the back of Akashi's knees, but when he went back up, his hands would not go further than where the underwear ends.

That was not the point, though—and that's why Akashi did not ask for more. Instead he just relished in the fleeting sensation coming from Midorima grasping him hard and letting go, over and over again. Not even questioning when Midorima turned away from him. He'll get it anyway.

Since the rival team's ace would later sit in front of Akashi, in the same chair he was in. Pulled down his training pants and briefs to reveal his aching and dripping erection. Akashi, finding it close enough and being pampered by the display, bent down to give a quick lick from the head to the base. Just when Midorima was to pull the strands of his hair, to get him deeper, Akashi returned to resting his back on the locker, and said, "Quick or I'll change my mind and ask for less."

Only to have his bare limbs splayed around Midorima's waist and Midorima tried to slide himself on the fold of Akashi's legs, giving it a taste before he snapped them shut around him. It had been too long since Midorima had something to relieve himself with other than himself. Or someone. Since he was Akashi Seijuurou, and he was warm and damp from Midorima's own previous deed. Too good for the three-point shooter that hadn't been intimate with anyone else since Akashi was distanced.

"Akashi," Midorima let off a groan as he felt sturdy thighs moving against him, too steady and sure as anything else coming from the other. Midorima himself had probably unlearned how to stimulate someone, in between the time they drifted apart and this moment; he reckoned as he fumbled with his pacing against Akashi, but he did not mind since he was not the one to take things for himself.

This was Akashi's share, and Midorima was nothing but a giver. Out of this time—when skins slapped against each other, and Akashi recited, "Shintarou, more," in various ways including restrained gasps, and Midorima bucked his hips, and tried to match the captain's steady movements, but ending up being more frantic—they would be nothing more than two of the generation's prodigies, that would always be compared and faced to each other due to a common past, at least that was how it was to Midorima.

He'd cope with the friction that made him hard and bring him nearing the edge. And the gaze Akashi gave him, like his talk were not enough of a demand to keep up and satisfy him like what he did. Midorima would then do more and linger long in the top edge or even further, grinding against Akashi's cock only to move to the back, teasing his ass cheeks for a while before going back to his legs, so that he would not be overwhelmed.

But Midorima himself was brought closer to his edge each time Akashi's thighs clasped around him. Taut and tender against his hardness, Midorima was sure that he wouldn't last for much longer—as he was sliding in and out, he felt he was reaching his high. Coming over Akashi's smooth skin, tainting both legs and the bench.

And from the hitch of his breath, the spasm of his muscles and the following wave of pleasure mixing with Midorima's, it was apparent that Akashi was gratified by this gift he acquired. Though with the few times they called each other's names, the rush and rigidity of their acts, it was obvious they were restricting themselves.

Midorima could see it in the way Akashi told him, "Clean it up and don't leave a mess," and handed out a new pack of tissue instead of two drenched thighs alone; in the way that the captain did not even offer more.


End file.
